The Shrew War  Epilogues
by Highwing
Summary: The latest of the Urthblood Wars concludes - but what does the future hold?
1. Epilogue I

Epilogue I

Extract from the journal of Winokur Otter, Recorder of Redwall Abbey:

_It is the Autumn of the Laughing Abbess!_

_Abbot Arlyn, Brother Geoff and I were debating the name right up until the morning of the feast. This season very nearly became the Autumn of the Harebabes, in honor of the Long Patrol newborns who have recently joined our family. But in the end it was decided that, of all the myriad triumphs and misfortunes we have experienced these past few seasons, it is the fate and condition of our afflicted Abbess which affects us all more profoundly than anything else._

_Vanessa still shows no sign of emerging from her childlike state. She seems perfectly healthy and happy in all other respects ... but her current personality and demeanor is so unlike the Vanessa we all knew that it only underscores how truly abnormal the situation is. She is so carefree, mischievous and utterly uninhibited in everything she says and does, it gives Maura fits! Our dear Badger Mother is still adjusting to the idea that our former Abbess now resides under her care, along with the rest of the Abbey youngsters. It is an exceedingly odd state of affairs for us all, but we cope as best we can with both the loss of the wise mouse we once knew and this little hellion who's taken her place. Seldom does a day go by that we don't hear her innocent (and sometimes not so innocent!) laughter, be it echoing through Great Hall and Cavern Hole, chasing up and down the corridors and stairwells, adding to the happy confusion in the kitchens or brightening the Abbey grounds and walltop on fair days. As distressing as her present condition is, few among us can deny that Vanessa's almost manic exuberance and sheer joy of living for the moment has not lifted their spirits at sometime or other this past season. And thus does this autumn have its name._

_The absurdity of the situation was compounded by the fact that Vanessa herself could not fathom just who the "laughing Abbess" in question was supposed to be. She harbors no memory whatsoever of her life before her injury, no comprehension that she was ever in fact Abbess or even of her true age. Whenever any of us try to explain this to her, she dismisses us as sillybeasts and runs away laughing._

_This latest festival saw not only the naming of the season but of a new Abbot as well. Arlyn officially announced that he would be stepping down as acting Abbot so that he could devote his remaining seasons to helping young Metellus learn the healing arts. Only two days have passed since the feast, and already that old mouse and the badgerchild have spent more hours up in the Infirmary together than I can count. Of course, Arlyn often drops off into his frequent snoozes while Metellus is reading, but then at his age, he's earned every nap!_

_Our new Abbot is, of course, Brother Geoff, and I think it shall take him longer to get used to being addressed as "Abbot Geoff" than it will for the rest of us to get into the habit of calling him that! I think that fussy historian is the only one among us who can't see that he was the only natural choice to succeed Arlyn, and perfectly suited for the position. Nobeast at Redwall knows more about our ways and history than Geoff, and his seasons as teacher do lend him some air of authority, for all that he may deny it. I suspect that he is secretly thrilled; what wholly dedicated brother or sister of the order doesn't daydream at some time or other about becoming Abbot or Abbess of Redwall? I know how Geoff must feel, a little, since my own name is still frequently tossed around as a candidate for the Abbotship somewhere down the road, and in all honesty I just can't see it. I'd be honored and overjoyed, to be sure, but ... me? Abbot? The idea boggles my mind._

_Then again, if you'd told me just a season or two ago that I would now be Redwall's official Recorder, I'd have said you must have been munching on one too many fermented damsons! It is a great responsibility, made all the greater since the Recorder traditionally also serves as the Abbey's primary teacher. I have been keeping my own practice diary for several seasons now, and I have helped Geoff organize and present his lessons for nearly as long, so I suppose I am prepared for this challenge. Our new Abbot will still assist me in the classroom as much as his own increased responsibilities will allow, and that of course will be a big help, as will the fact that our pupils are growing older. In just the past season I've noticed that even Droge and Budsock are conducting themselves with greater maturity; it's hard to believe that in just a few more seasons, they themselves will be near adulthood, ready to take their places of responsibility in Redwall's community. Now if only I could get Vanessa to behave on the days when she bothers showing up for classes at all, and stop inciting our Sparra students Brybag, Harpreet and Skytop to behave even more rambunctiously than their birdish nature leads them to! And, with our new harebabes and no doubt more on the way, I don't suppose my teaching duties will end any season soon!_

_I have appointed Cyrus to be Redwall's new apprentice Recorder, and he was thrilled! He and Cyril will continue to serve as our official bellringers, since no two surer pair of paws are to be found anywhere in the Abbey. It will feel funny, since as of a few days ago Cyrus and I were still both assisting Geoff with his lessons, to now have Cyrus as my own teacher's aid. I can only hope he proves as helpful to me as the two of us were to Geoff. At least Cyrus seems to know what he wants to do with his life, which is more than can be said for his older sibling. Cyril continues to wear squirrel-style tunics, refusing to go back to his green novice's habit robes, and I have heard him say he is not even sure he considers himself a novice of the Redwall order at all anymore! He spends more and more time these days with us otters and Alexander's squirrels, learning how to spar and shoot. His competence in both areas remains questionable, although his determination seems genuine; many times he has quit his warrior's training in disgust over his fledgling abilities, only to be right back at it the very next morning. It is clear that he still misses Broggen terribly, and I suspect he dedicates himself to military practice largely out of respect to that stoat's memory. Nobeast here will begrudge him that, and if he truly seeks a warrior's life, I will do all I can to encourage him._

_Whether his warrior skills will ever have need to be called upon is quite another matter. The Guosim returned just in time for Nameday, as Log-a-Log had promised, after having made a thorough circuit of Mossflower to the north, and they report nothing amiss anywhere in that region. Likewise, when Tolar and Roxroy and several of their fellow swordfoxes arrived for Nameday, they bore tidings that Foxguard's wall has at last been completed, and their fortress now stands as a fastness of almost impenetrable quality. (They have invited some of the Abbey leaders - which now includes me, I have to keep reminding myself - to a feast at Foxguard to celebrate its completion and further formalize ties between them and Redwall. I hope to attend that affair, since it will allow me to see Roxroy once more. That fox has become one of my very best friends, and even though he only left yesterday to return to Foxguard, I was sad at our parting and miss him already.) Meanwhile, our hare and squirrel and Sparra patrols continue to uncover no sign of an enemy anywhere in nearby Mossflower or the Western Plains. Snoga and his followers will never trouble anybeast again ... and then there is the matter of Tratton and Urthblood._

_Not long after Log-a-Log came to us last summer to let us know everything about Doublegate, Snoga, Hanchett and Lorr, Urthblood's falcon captain Klystra appeared on our ramparts to announce that an accord had indeed been signed by those two great adversaries. Many of us were incredulous, not only that two such longstanding enemies could reach any kind of formal agreement but also that they could do so after the Doublegate incident. But, in spite of everything and against all historical precedent, the searats and Salamandastron are now at peace._

_What does this startling and most unlikely development portend for the future? I for one am at a loss to say, and the profusion of different viewpoints all around me does little to sort this matter out in my mind. Colonel Clewiston and many of the Long Patrols point to this as proof that Urthblood always meant to make common cause with Tratton, and that now he and the searats will be free to subjugate the lands to their united tyranny. Lady Mina, meanwhile, being the only one among us who actually helped Urthblood fight the searats during his Northland campaigns, is clearly having trouble reconciling a peace with the same creatures she once slew in numbers as enemies of all decent folk. But of all Redwallers, I think it is the former slaves of the searats who are most conflicted over this. They, after all, are the only members of our community who have suffered directly under the lash of the searats, knowing firstpaw their tortures and other unpleasantness, seeing some of their friends killed for sport in the most gruesome ways (some of their stories from that timber mill have turned my stomach), and spending long seasons under the soul-crushing yoke of forced labor. I have heard both Lekkas and Tourki the late-arriving otter curse Urthblood's name outright for daring to come to any kind of terms at all with the seavermin who treated them thus. Kurdyla, who is finally walking on his own again (although he still uses a cane), was nearly as riled, and even the usually mild-mannered Clovis had some unkind things to say about the Badger Lord._

_Yet even these denouncements came with tears in their eyes and very mixed emotions on their faces. Urthblood was, after all, the one whose forces liberated them from the lumber mill and the slave galley in the first place. They have seen with their own eyes that he will not hesitate to unleash wholesale destruction upon Tratton if he feels it necessary. And with these new weapons that have come into play - on both sides - they know as well as any of us that an all-out war between Urthblood and Tratton would prove ruinous beyond imagining; what happened at Doublegate is proof enough of that. But there is one factor even greater than this which hits close to home for them, and that is the provision in the accord which frees every slave in searat claws. How can anybeast, much less a former slave, take issue with a treaty which delivers so many innocent woodlanders from such cruel bondage?_

_None of these newly-released slaves have made it to our gates yet - indeed, Klystra told us it may take seasons before every last slave in Tratton's vast empire see its freedom - but we were informed to expect at least some of them before season's end. The first batch have already departed from Salamandastron, but as they are taking the long way around to the south of the mountain range rather than braving the treacherous high pass directly over it, it may be some time yet before we see them here. Where we are going to house them all - especially if this preliminary trickle turns into a flood by next spring - poses no small quandary, but it is not in our nature to turn away anybeast in need, especially ones who have suffered so. Room will be found, even if every slave freed from Tratton's talons decides to settle at our Abbey; this Arlyn swore before stepping down as Abbot, and it is an oath he made Geoff promise to uphold as well. Perhaps it is time to expand the dormitory tunnels we built for the Long Patrol last autumn ..._

_At least we will not have to put up the Gawtrybe who will be coming to Mossflower. On Captain Klystra's latest visit, just a few days before Nameday, that falcon bore a dispatch from Urthblood to Mina informing her that many of her fellow squirrel archers are to be reassigned to Mossflower, now that they will no longer be needed at Salamandastron in such force. He said it was to bolster the security of the inner lands, which has left many of us scratching our heads in puzzlement; Redwall is as strong as it has ever been, and with Foxguard standing sentinel alongside us for as far as the eye can see, I cannot imagine why Urthblood would feel the need to send any additional forces our way. Fortunately, it will not be any immediate concern of ours, since they will be stationed at Foxguard and Grayfoot's Tavern. At least it will give Mina a chance to socialize with some of her fellow Gawtrybe, without having to travel all the way out to the coast or up north to her home forest. As much as she enjoys the company of our Mossflower Patrols, and as deeply as she loves Alexander, I suspect she misses her kinfolk more than she shows, and this should provide at least some tonic to any pangs of homesickness she might be feeling._

_Alex and Mina remain childless, although I am sure it is not through lack of trying; those two are so open in their public displays of affection, I can only imagine what goes on at night behind their closed bedroom door. (Or perhaps I'd better not - three raps on the noggin with your own rudder, you naughty otter!) In a way, I suppose it's for the best. Mina prides herself in staying in top physical form, and relishes her breakneck flights through the treetops whenever she goes out on patrol with Alex. In all honesty, I almost can't envision her ever being in a family way - she's just too much the warrior. But, I'm sure the day will arrive eventually when she will present Alex with a strapping son or beautiful daughter, and on that day Redwall will celebrate as it seldom has before._

_But, while we're waiting for that happy day to arrive, the hares will do their part to keep us in babes. Melanie gave birth to a hale and hearty son, and named him Lysander - which, it turns out, was the name of her first husband, Mizagelle and Givadon's father, who was slain by searats back in the days when Lord Urthfist ruled Salamandastron. Lysander joins Chevelle, Faylona and Troyall as the next generation of Long Patrol at Redwall. We were all a little worried about Mel, going through pregnancy and the rigors of childbirth at her age, but she weathered the trial like the trooper she is, glowing with a radiant joy all during her term (not counting those bouts of morning sickness) and delivering her newborn with the spirit of a hare half her age. She and the Colonel haven't indicated yet whether they might try for another - our newest dad was so elated over finally becoming a father that his ears were twisted up into a happy knot that entire first day, and he's still walking on air! - but we will not have to wait so long for our family to grow further. Mizagelle is pregnant again, and so Chevelle will have a brother or sister by the time winter arrives. Mizzy and Browder certainly didn't waste any time! And thus does the new generation come up to supplant the old ..._

_Another babe dwells in our hearts as well, even if he does not reside here at Redwall. Grayfoot and Judelka brought Percival up for Nameday, and that feisty ferret toddler is as adorable as anybeast could be! Pearce, or Percy, was surely the hit of this season's festival, stealing even the harebabes' thunder. He's fully walking on his own now - fates preserve us when our own long-eared brood get to that age in another season or so! - and was into positively everything! The Abbey children couldn't get enough of him, doting upon him like he was their adopted brother, Droge and Budsock and Pirkko especially. It did all our hearts good to see the expression of gratified joy on the retired captain's face when he saw how his son had been embraced by our community; he was immensely proud, and moved almost to tears, although of course he claimed it was just a bit of windblown debris in his eye. Judelka remains ... well, Judelka, as detached and impassive as always. In a way I think it's good that there will soon be some Gawtrybe staying with Grayfoot at his inn; that ferret could surely use some help raising Percy, and as much as it pains me to say it, I don't think he's going to get it from his wife._

_So here we are as we embark upon yet another season. A time to reflect back on all we have gained - and lost - this past summer. Perhaps the losses of Hanchett and Lorr will not be felt quite so keenly as those of Aurelia and Broggen, but they were Redwallers too, or at least part of our extended family in Lorr's case, and both will be sorely missed by those who knew them best. And, in a very real sense, we have also lost the very Abbess for whom this season is named. At least there is still a chance, however small, that Vanessa might someday return to her senses and once more become the sensible and inspiring mouse we all knew for so long. She is still alive, after all, and as long as there's life there's hope._

_But, alas, we must proceed as if our old beloved Abbess is gone forever. Redwall needs sure and wise guidance, especially in these uncertain times. Thus, Geoff is now Abbot, I am now Recorder and teacher, Cyrus is my apprentice ... and so it goes. At least there has been no changing of the guard amongst our longstanding defenders: Alex and Mina and the Forest Patrol, Colonel Clewiston and the Long Patrol, Skipper Montybank and his otters, Highwing and the Sparra who overfly our lands so diligently, our ever-dependable Foremole and his mole crews, Friar Hugh and his kitchen staff, Balla and her cellar helpers ... Yes, for all that we have lost these past two seasons, we still have so much for which to be thankful. Blessings almost beyond counting, as I am reminded everytime I stand up before my class and behold the burning light of youthful enthusiasm in the sparkling eyes of my pupils, everytime I sit down to table and find yet another of Hugh's scrumptious dishes before me, and everytime I go for an amble across the Abbey grounds, a stroll along the ramparts or a dip in the pond. My father Warnokur was a born wanderer, and I must confess that in my younger days I could see the attraction of such an adventurous existence. Now, however, I could never leave this wonderful place. Why would anybeast want to risk the hazards of the wider world when everything they could possibly want - delicious food, fine clothes, comfortable beds, and more love and friendship than a goodbeast's heart could hope to hold - is to be found right here within our steadfast walls?_

_We have foxes to the east of us, their mighty tower altering our world by its mere presence in our sky, and these beasts we call friends. We have a ferret family to our south, and they too we call friends, their babe having stolen our hearts. And to the west dwells the badger who has dared what no Lord or Lady of his species ever did before: to make peace with his ancient enemy, so that peace might have a chance to flourish where previously only the ravages of war held sway. I do not know if Urthblood can make such a peace work - the challenge might exceed even his force of will and great power - nor do I know whether he might have less than honorable motives in all of this that have yet to be revealed to us. But perhaps it is not necessary for us to try to divine what mysterious designs reside within that heavily fated creature of destiny._

_My father served Lord Urthblood willingly, and died for that badger - and my Dad was not easily hoodwinked, worldly otter that he was. Mina remains unshakably loyal to Urthblood, and she is a beast of high honor. As was Machus, and as is Abellon, and Tillamook, and Klystra and Altidor. And while the defection of the Northland otters is a matter of some concern, for I hold a deep respect for Captain Saybrook, I also respect and trust the judgment of Log-a-Log, and in spite of what happened at Castle Marl, he would still pledge himself and the Guosim as Urthblood's ally in time of need. So many good creatures cannot be wrong, no matter what our hare friends say. Urthblood may have overstepped the bounds of what was appropriate when he used poison vapors as a weapon, but he has now lost his otters as a result of that miscalculation, and has surely learned not to use such weapons again. I still believe he stands as a protector of these lands, due to the quality of creatures he commands if not to his own character._

_Or so I hope._

_It will be interesting to see whether his great experiment - peace with the searats - can possibly work. If it does, we might just have sidestepped the great crisis he first warned us about five season ago. If not, well, then I don't suppose we'll be any great deal worse off than we were before. A golden age, or the great upheaval? Time will tell ... but whichever way the scales of fate tip, Redwall will stand ready to face the challenges of whatever the future throws our way, just as we always have._

_Interesting times, indeed._


	2. Epilogue II

Epilogue II

Beneath the brown desolation of the frost-tinged Western Plains, the Flitch-aye-aye slept.

This was their third winter since being driven from their original home in northern Mossflower by the Red Badger. The subterranean cannibal weasels had learned that few travellers came their way during these harsh months, and so it was hardly worth checking the bowl-shaped valley where their sleeping vapors hung to ensnare unwary journeybeasts. Once every day or two - or three - one of the weasels would poke its head up above ground to make sure that no succulent victims lay succumbed to their narcotic fumes, but for the most part the Flitch-aye-aye were miserably resigned to subsisting on moss and slime scraped from the walls of their underground caverns, until the fairer weather brought more prey their way.

Thus it was that the exterminators were able to catch them unawares.

The moles came first, snouts covered with moistened cloth masks to filter out the worst of the sleep-inducing gas; some even wore clear glass goggles over their eyes to grant them unimpaired vision in the misty dell. These Northlanders carried no arms, unless one counted their instinctive earthlore skills as their weapons. Treading carefully so as not to alert the weasels dwelling beneath them, the moles scoped out the valley inch by inch, sniffing and listening and probing the ground on all fours and measuring with fine instruments, until they had the entire network of underground caves and tunnels mapped out and marked with tiny flags. Then, they got to digging.

It was then, as they excavated their narrow shafts down into the lair of their enemy, that the Flitch-aye-aye first became aware of these trespassers. More than once, the cannibal savages surged forward to overcome the intruders, but their efforts were in vain, for these were no mere timid moles, but expert fighters as well. As the more audacious of the weasels fell to mole blades, the rest withdrew, cowed and fearful at the sudden presence of these formidable warriors in their midst. This left the mole corps free to finish their work.

Soon all the necessary shafts were sunk, and the moles climbed out and retreated up the valley slopes, their work here completed. In their place came a small army of shrews, bearing in their paws clay vessels as dull and unassuming as the drab plains around them. A knot of shrews gathered around each shaft, hurling their fragile loads down into the home of the Flitch-aye-aye with much smashing and shattering. When their task was finished, they retreated with a good deal more haste than the moles had shown, even as sickly yellow wisps curled up from some of the newly-dug chimneys to mingle with the pale vapors of the cannibals' making.

The Flitch-aye-aye had secret escape routes, but these too had been divined by the moles. When some of the weasels poured out of these hidden tunnels in their desperate attempts to escape the burning poison that suddenly flooded their home, ranks of Gawtrybe stood at the ready with bows drawn to cut down the fleeing vermin before they'd made it a dozen paces. This was the choice left to the Flitch-aye-aye: to perish in their cavern suffocated by vapors far more malignant than any they'd ever produced themselves, or to perish with squirrel shafts in their skulls and ribs. But either way, perish this day they would.

Some time later, Captain Tardo stumped over to Urthblood, who stood at the valley's edge overseeing this operation. "Looks like no more 're tryin' t' get out, M'Lord. Reckon we took care of 'em all?"

The crimson badger gave a nod. "The weapon will do its work well. This was a perfect situation for its use."

"Didn't take long. Thought this might drag out fer hours ... "

"A large part in the success of any assault is in the planning. The days spent working out the details of this mission reward us now in its execution."

"Execution ... that's as good a word as any, I s'pose."

"The Flitch-aye-aye preyed upon unsuspecting goodbeasts. My mistake was not eliminating them entirely the first time I encountered them. That mistake has now been rectified." Urthblood turned away from the scene of extermination. "Muster the troops, Captain. We return to Salamandastron."


	3. Epilogue III

Epilogue III - Requiem for the Last Rat

Grayfoot was surprised to see the rat enter his tavern.

The rodent stood just inside the front door for several moments, apprehensively glancing about the large room while his eyes adjusted to the dimness. The tavern was empty except for a mole and a hedgehog who sat together chatting at a corner table. They too had looked up upon the rat's entrance, but at the barest hint of a nod from the ferret behind the bar, they returned to their private, muted conversation.

This seemed to relieve the rat, who made his way across to the counter and helped himself to a stool. Everything about his behavior suggested a secretive anxiety, a covert wariness that went far beyond the usual caution of a beast entering an unfamiliar establishment for the first time. Well, Grayfoot said to himself, if their positions had been reversed, he'd be paranoid too.

The ferret could tell from the newcomer's dress and manner that he was a woodland rat, which was after all the only kind one would expect to see in this part of Mossflower. Grayfoot got on well with woodland rats - at least, they'd never given him any trouble, and their patronage was as good as anybeast's. He would offer his best services to this one, however meagre those might be.

Grayfoot finished polishing the newly-washed tumbler in his paws and slid it into the tray with its fellows. "We don't get many rats in here nowadays," he remarked, his tone conversational.

The rat scowled. "That s'posed to be a joke?"

"Yes," Grayfoot replied mirthlessly, "but not a very funny one, I'm 'fraid."

The rat said nothing else for awhile after that, wordlessly looking the ferret barkeep up and down in appraisal, trying to decide whether to count him as enemy or ally.

"What brings you here?" Grayfoot prompted at last.

"Got nowhere else t'go," the rat replied morosely. Grayfoot gave a sage nod, mulling over the multiple levels of meaning in that simple statement.

"That's true enough. Y'know, officially, I'm supposed to report you."

The rat's eyes went wide, his whole body stiffened, and Grayfoot could almost hear the blood turning to ice in the rodent's veins.

"Are y'gonna?" he croaked from a dry throat. "Turn me in?"

"I might just not," Grayfoot answered coolly. "I'm not in the army anymore. I'm not bound to follow orders I don't happen to agree with."

That seemed to soothe the panicked rodent, if only a little. Beads of perspiration stood out on the fur of his brow. "You knew the badger, before he came to Mossflower?"

Grayfoot nodded. "I was one of his captains, up in the Northlands. Before I was made to retire."

"Why? Wasn't you any good?"

Grayfoot gritted his teeth, and his paw almost went for the scimitar he kept under the counter. Almost, but not quite. His seasons as an innkeeper had mellowed him since his fighting days, as had his wife and son, and he was not as quick to take mortal offense as he once was.

"Yeah, I was good," he growled. "One o' the best."

"So, what happened?" the rat asked, striving to sound more friendly.

"It was decided," Grayfoot adopted the tone of reciting an official mandate (which he was), "that I would serve a greater good by gettin' married, startin' a family, and coming down here to run a respectable tavern, as living proof to the folk of these parts that not all so-called vermin were bad sorts. So, here I am."

The rat glanced around. "Nice place you built fer yerself 'ere. Never been inside before, m'self."

"Used to be an old abandoned church on this lot. Burned down seasons ago. It was the perfect site fer a roadside waterin' hole. Speakin' of which, can I get you anything? You sound a little parched."

The rat held out his paws in a helpless gesture. "Can't pay you anything."

"Didn't expect you could. Not t'worry, this one's on me ... " Grayfoot poured a tall tankard of cool ale and set it before his thirsty patron. After a moment's embarrassed hesitation, the rat hoisted it and quaffed half the ale in one straight glug. Licking his foam-tipped whiskers, he sat staring at the tall tumbler.

"T'weren't ever no money in Mossflower 'fore that badger came. We'd barter bits o' goods, things we'd have that other beasts could use. But never any money."

"Things are changing," Grayfoot agreed. "But then, I guess I don't hafta tell you that, do I?"

The rat took another long draught from his tankard, imbibing the ale at a more leisurely pace now that his immediate thirst had been quenched. Grayfoot stood back and let the brew have its calming effect, leaving it up to the rat to resume the conversation if and when he wanted to.

"Slaves!" the rodent spat after a long silence. "They're roundin' us all up an' sendin' us off to be slaves!"

"Do tell," Grayfoot prompted.

"You musta heard all 'bout it yerself," said the rat. "It's that treaty the badger made with the searats - the one that's s'posed to bring peace to all th' lands. Searats had to free all their woodland galley slaves, an' in return the badger'd send all us land rats their way. It'd be one big rat nation, rulin' the seas an' part o' the coastlands. Us an' all other creatures livin' apart from each other, rats in one place an' everybeast else in another."

Grayfoot stood silently behind the bar, offering neither confirmation nor an opinion on the matter.

"Do I look like a searat to you?" the rat exploded. "I'm a woodsbeast, much as any mouse or mole, an' that's all I've ever known! Mossflower's my home. I ain't never caused nobeast any trouble ner hurt. What right's that big brute got t'turn honest creatures outta their family homes an' force 'em t'go someplace they don't wanna?"

He was nearly in tears of frustration now. "What do I know about searats an' their ships? Nothin', that's what! So what good would I be to 'em? Good fer one thing only, an' that's to be an oarslave in one o' their rowin' galleys, or forced labor on one o' their sea island compounds. That's where we're all endin' up - chained beasts o' burden, livin' in our own filth. I don't know what kinda opinion you got 'bout us rats, but I ain't never lived in my own filth, an' I don't plan on ever startin'! I'll die first!"

"It might just come to that," Grayfoot said solemnly.

The rat stared down at his drink. "Yeah ... I know ... "

The mole and hedgehog at the corner table had cut off their discussion at the rat's outburst and now sat gazing his way. They awaited only Grayfoot's cue to step forward and play their part in this drama.

The rat turned an imploring stare to the ferret. "You gotta help me!"

"I'm not in much of a position fer that, friend. But I do know a place you can go where you'll be safe: Redwall Abbey, half a day's march north of here."

The rat waved a dismissive claw. "Nah, that's no good. Some o' my friends tried to make it there, an' none got through. Them squirrel archers got all the approaches to th' Abbey cordoned off tight, an' they'll catch anybeast tryin' to sneak there through the forest. An' I'll be seen if I take the road. Redwall might's well be on the other side of the ocean fer all the chance I'd have of makin' it there wi'out gettin' captured."

Grayfoot could well appreciate this aspect of the rat's dilemma. The Gawtrybe squirrel archers who'd been reassigned from Salamandastron to help patrol Mossflower were not officially part of the badger's army, but they were his sworn allies, and they observed that alliance with fanatical dedication. So, when the orders had gone out to remove all rats from Mossflower country, those treebeasts had become the primary instrument for enforcing that edict, scouring these forestlands like a living net to root out even the most secluded pockets of ratdom for eviction. For most of a season they'd been carrying out this campaign with ruthless efficiency. Rats were now few and far between in this region, and any who remained were outlaws by sheer virtue of the fact that they happened to be rats.

A few had found sanctuary at Redwall - a situation resulting in no small amount of tension between the Gawtrybe and the Abbeydwellers - which was why the Gawtrybe were being especially vigilant against allowing anymore rats to reach that sanctuary. With those squirrels trolling these woods, it was whispered that the very trees had eyes and ears. It was hardly surprising that none of this rat's friends had made it through.

What was surprising was that he'd made it to Grayfoot's tavern himself. "You took a pretty big risk comin' here," the ferret said. "I had some Gawtrybe stationed right under my roof this past fall and winter, before they built that place of their own. They still stop by fer refreshment now an' then. You coulda run right smack into a whole patrol of 'em."

"Yeah, I know they come 'ere a lot," the rat nodded. "That's why I figgered they wouldn't be keepin' too close a watch on this place. I been layin' low in th' bushes since dawn, waitin' t'make sure there was none o' them red-furred devils about. Didn't think they'd likely be loiterin' around a tavern at mid-morning, not when they still got honest rats to harass, so I made my break an' got my tail in here fast as I could."

"I guess you weren't seen," Grayfoot mused. "Otherwise, you'd be in their custody by now."

"Y'gotta hide me!" the rat pleaded. "You got lotsa rooms upstairs, an' a place like this's gotta have a big cellar fer alla yer drinks. I c'n work fer my keep. Please, lemme stay here."

Grayfoot shook his head. "Sorry, no can do. It ain't that I don't sympathize, mind, but if the Gawtrybe catch me harboring a fugitive they'll take this tavern right away from me. I'd be lucky not to end up in chains an' shipped off to the searats myself. I got a family to support - I can't take that kinda chance."

The rat's face clouded over with anger. "Then what good are you?" he spat.

Grayfoot moved like brown lightning. In the blink of an eye his dagger was out of its sheath at his waist and quivering point-down in the countertop a whisker's breadth from the rodent's resting paw.

"I'm good fer not pinning yer ungrateful claw to my bar an' holdin' you here while I raise the alarm. I'm good fer lendin' you a sympathetic ear an' free use of a tankard of my best ale. An' I'm good fer offerin' you whatever advice I can safely afford to. Now, if I was you, I'd learn how to recognize a friend when you meet one, 'cos you got precious few of 'em these days."

The rat timidly withdrew his paws into his lap, while Grayfoot yanked free his blade and replaced it in its sheath. "Sorry," the shaken rat muttered, "but I'm at my wit's end, an' I don't know what I'm gonna do or where I'm gonna go ... "

"If you can't make it to Redwall," suggested Grayfoot, "try for the Western Plains. The Gawtrybe can't cover flatlands as easily as they can the forests, and as long as you steer clear of the badger's shrews, you should have a chance. I know some rats have gone that way. Mebbe you could meet up with 'em."

"I heard that too," said the rat. "But nobeast knows what's happened to any who've set out fer th' Plains ... "

"Not necessarily a bad sign. If the rats who went there have successfully hidden themselves, you'd not expect t' be hearin' back from 'em."

"Yeah, I guess ... " The rat shook his head as if he might be able to rouse himself from the nightmare in which he was mired. "How'd we ever get to this, mate? I mean, us rats've never been th' most noble or privileged of creatures, or the luckiest, or whatever you wanna say 'bout us. A few of us've caused goodbeasts strife down through the seasons, but most of us just wanna live an' let live, y'know? Nobeast deserves what we're goin' through now. How did this all come to happen?"

"Urthblood happened," Grayfoot responded simply.

"I mean, how'd you feel if'n it was ferrets gettin' rounded up an' shipped off, instead o' us rats?"

"I imagine I'd feel much the same way you feel now," Grayfoot admitted. He glanced at the smoked windows, and guessed it was close to noon. "If you want, you can stay here 'til nightfall, tho' I can't guarantee we won't get any Gawtrybe droppin' in before then, an' if that happens then I gotta give you to 'em. Your choice, friend."

"Better not - think I've pushed my luck far as it'll go. No use hangin' round askin' fer trouble. Uh, I don't suppose I could ask you to take a look outside t' see if'n the coast's clear?"

"That I can do fer you, an' more too." Grayfoot gave a wordless paw gesture to his two companions, who immediately sprang up from their seats in the corner. The hedgehog made a beeline for the front door and exited; a wedge of the late-morning brightness spilled into the dim interior, briefly dispelling some of the gloom before the door closed again.

The mole, meanwhile, bustled into a back room, emerging moments later with a heavy pack and a folded travel cloak, both of which he presented to the rat.

"The pack's got two canteens full of water, as well as enough nonperishable provisions to last you a fortnight, if y'don't get greedy," said Grayfoot. "The travel cloak's woven through with gray, green and brown - excellent camouflage fer both forest an' plains. If you think you're in danger of bein' discovered, just lie flat with that cloak over you, an' you'll vanish like a hare gone to ground."

The rat gazed in befuddlement at the generous offerings. "Wait a sec ... these were all made up 'fore I even came in here." He gave Grayfoot a searching gaze. "You've done this before, haven't you?"

"Ask me no questions, rat, an' I'll tell you no lies."

The knife edge of menace in the ferret's voice warned the rat not to press the matter. "Um, yeah, uh, thanks. Thanks much, matey. I'll not ferget yer kindness ... "

"Actshully, I'd rather you did. Especially if any Gawtrybe ask you 'bout where you got all that."

The hedgehog ambled back inside and gave the all-clear. When the rat departed, he was alone. Grayfoot had done all he could; the rodent was on his own from the moment he set his claws outside the tavern.

"Think he'll make it?" the hedgehog wondered aloud.

"I'd like to think so," said Grayfoot, absently picking at the wound his dagger had made in the bar; maybe some dark polish would help cover the gouge. "But it's none of our concern any longer."

"Oi reckern 'ee moight be 'ee last ratter uz'll see in 'ere," the mole mused.

"That he might," agreed Grayfoot. "The way things're goin', he might be the last free rat left in all of Mossflower." He picked up another glass and started polishing it. "One thing's fer sure - won't be the same 'round here without 'em."

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(_Author's Note: I originally wrote "Requiem for the Last Rat" back in 2001 as a stand-alone story. This was long after I'd finished writing_ The Crimson Badger_ but still well before I would start work on_ The Shrew War_; in fact, one of my aims for_ TSW_ was to fill in all the history since the end of_ TCB_ that had been implied in "Requiem." When I reached the end of this present novel and realized that I'd almost succeeded in this goal, and that_ TSW_ was going to have a multi-part Epilogue, I decided to tack on this short fic as the concluding coda of the novel, as a glimpse of where Urthblood's treaty with Tratton would lead. If I ever get around to writing the third novel in the Urthblood Cycle, its main focus will be the Purge of the Rats, just as_ TCB_ focused on the conflict between Urthblood and Urthfist, and_ TSW_ focused on Snoga's spree of violence and how it wove into the larger conflict between Urthblood and Tratton._)


End file.
